With a hundred and two years and
ninety-five meetings in the history of the Society, TFS has grown some
lore of its own.
It has become a tradition to close every
meeting with the singing of "Beautiful Texas," a song composed in the
1930s by Texas Governor W. Lee O'Daniel.
click here for a printer friendly version
of the song
You have all read the beautiful stories
Of the countries far over the sea,
From whence came our ancestors
To establish this land of the free.
There are some folks who still like to travel
To see what they have over there,
But when they go look, it’s not like the book,
And they find there is none to compare.
(Oh) Beautiful, beautiful Texas,
Where the beautiful bluebonnets grow,
We’re proud of our forefathers
Who fought at the Alamo.
You can live on the plains or the mountain
Or down where the sea breezes blow,
And You’re still in beautiful Texas,
The most beautiful State that we know.
You can travel on beautiful highways
By the city, the village, and farm,
Or sail up above on the skyways,
And the beauty below you will charm;
White cotton, green forests, blue rivers,
Golden wheat fields, and fruit trees that bear;
You can look ’til doomsday, and then you will say
That Texas has beauty to spare.
In this song about beautiful Texas,
There’s one thing we just have to say
About six million people,
Who are proud they’re here to stay.
It’s great to be healthy and happy,
And that seems to be our good fate,
So let us all smile—for life is worthwhile
When we live in this beautiful State.
R. G. Dean tells about
the tradition of reciting "Lasca" at the Thursday Hootenanny.
Hermes Nye: A Bard of the Texas Folklore Society
The first meeting of the Texas Folklore Society
I attended was in Wimberley in 1970.
At the hootenanny on Thursday night,
Hermes Nye did his rendition of "Laska." Until his death, one of the high points of any
meeting was his inimitable recitation of that stirring
[Note: After Hermes'
death, R. G. Dean searched for and found the text of the poem and
continues the tradition.]
Printer Friendly Version of the poem
LASCA by Frank Desprez
I want free life and I want fresh air;
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,
The medley of horns and hoofs and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger, and life and love --
Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang close by my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to LaVaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And -- sting of a wasp! -- it made me stagger!
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight;
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn reboso about the wound,
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
Her eye was brown -- a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb
With feeling to the finger tips;
And when the sun is like a fire,
And sky one shining, soft sapphire,
One does not drink in little sips.
The air was heavy, and the night was hot,
I sat by her side, and forgot - forgot;
Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
Forgot that the air was close opprest,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;
That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
Nothing on earth can stop the flight;
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
Who falls in front of their mad stampede!
Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
Of my swift mustang without a word.
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
Away! On a hot chase down the wind!
But never was fox hunt half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared,
For we rode for our lives, You shall hear how we fared
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one;
Halt, jump to ground, and shoot your horse;
Crouch under his carcass and take your chance;
And, if the steers in their frantic course
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your star; if not, goodbye
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
And the open air and the open sky,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together -- and, what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my breast,
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
Then came thunder in my ears,
As over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise--
Lasca was dead!
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying, and no one knows;
And the summer shines and the winter snows;
For many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head;
And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,
And the sly coyote trots here and there,
And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
Into a rift in a cottonwood tree;
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship at sea.
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like the things that were.
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
(Kenneth Davis supplied the copy of "Laska" as well as the
following information about the author and the poem.)
Frank Desprez was an Englishmen who in 1879
came to America where for three years he was a cowboy.
In 1882 he returned to England and wrote "Laska" which was first published in
the London Society: A Magazine of Light and Amusing
Literature, for November of 1882. A couple of years later, the poem was published in
the Livestock Journal, and in the Miles City Stockman.
It quickly moved into the oral tradition where it remains.